


Good Dogs

by Quarkitty



Category: A Song of Ice and Fire - George R. R. Martin, Game of Thrones (TV), game of thrones
Genre: Abuse, Blood Drinking, Bloodplay, Brainwashing, Captivity, Dubious Consent, Identity loss, Incest, Incest References, Knifeplay, Leeching, M/M, Ramsay Bolton Is His Own Warning, Rape, Thramsay - Freeform, Thramsay is its own warning, Threats of Violence, Violence, cannibalistic language/references, crying about robb stark, flaying, i am honestly out of tags just know this is gross and bad, implied skullfucking, more tags to come with each chapter, no the dogs dont die, noncon, sado masochism, throose - Freeform, wow what a tag
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-04-29
Updated: 2016-06-19
Packaged: 2018-06-05 04:33:24
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Major Character Death, Rape/Non-Con
Chapters: 3
Words: 8,214
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/6689305
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Quarkitty/pseuds/Quarkitty
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Theon Greyjoy's only solace during his captivity is Ramsay's hounds, the Bastard's girls. Roose Bolton has a request from Theon, and Theon wonders if his coldness hides a darker sadism than his son. After a night of leeching, Roose has more plans for Theon, however Ramsay Bolton is not a man who likes to share his toys. How will Ramsay react to his father getting his hands on his favorite plaything? Get in the garbage truck, we are going dumpster diving.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Patriarch

**Author's Note:**

> Hey trash bags, this will be a short multichapter fic examining the differences between everyone's favorite father/son duo Roose Bolton and Ramsay. Also, it's a bit of an homage to my favorite dog in the world. I'm serious. My doggy's health is not so great right now and while she regains her strength I wanted to write about my own favorite fictional dogs and how much they may have meant to Theon on those cold nights in the kennel. Dogs are great. Hug your dog for me. Tell me their names, I love 'em all. 
> 
> As per usual with my fics, Bolton fandom is its own warning. I will do my best to tag everything but please tag caution. There will be violence in this fic, non-con, dub-con, and blood. I want you to stay safe, my dearest reader. Please take caution. (The first chapter is actually fairly tame to my standard's, but this will be rectified in the next chapter when everyone's little shitlord Ramsay Bolton happens.)
> 
> I feel the need to put a disclaimer on my fics that these are works of fiction and are done out of a coping mechanism for me. Please try to understand that this helps me with mental illness, thank you.

**PATRIARCH**

Theon never liked dogs much. When the Starks found those whining pups, he wished they left it to nature. Dying things ought to do just that—die. It wasn’t malice, it was just how it went.

A cold nose pressed against Theon’s skin. He stroked the red fur, letting it run slowly through his fingers. Dogs were warm. Nights in the kennels got so cold with just a stone floor and rushes to sleep on. But the bastard’s girls, they were softer than anything he had felt since Ramsay. Sniveling things, they were always hungry. Their ribs showed and they fought over any scrap of meat, often biting each other, scratching, and pinning a lesser dog down with their paws. Theon thought about Sansa’s direwolf Lady, always prim and proper, eating from a bowl like a human. He snorted to himself. The bastard’s girls would rip Lady in half if given the word.

Red Jeyne sighed softly at Theon’s touch. He tutted behind her floppy ear. Ramsay threw them meat and water and took them on hunts, but he so rarely pet the damned things. Objects, Theon thought, they were objects to him like anything else. Just another tool to use to hurt people, nothing more. Red Jeyne licked Theon’s hand, licking off the salt and sweat.

“Nothing there for you girl,” Theon whispered, careful his voice didn’t carry in case the kennel master was nearby. “Whatever food is stuck under my fingernails has long been in my mouth.” The hound panted and huffed. “Until your master finds another woman to hunt, you might have to manage.”

The night was half way through and the dogs were ready for sleep. They curled up together with a bit of nipping and howling. Theon crawled over and rest his head on one of the smaller dogs, Sara. He closed his eyes and pat her stomach, picking off some dirt. He felt around her ears and found a small bump. Pulling off the insect, he popped it in his mouth and chewed, the tiny legs crawling along his tongue. What did turkey legs taste like again, he thought to himself, trying to remember the nights we went to bed with a stomach full of food and a woman lying next to him.

One of the dogs sneezed. Well, a real human woman.

Footsteps crunching through snow jolted Theon before he could drift off. The dogs growled and Theon shot up. Regardless of how much the dogs had taken to him, once they bared their teeth and went into guard it was fair game. He could not blame them, they were good dogs. Scared dogs with hungry bellies, but good dogs. Theon started to shake. He swallowed everything inside of him. Please be the kennel master, please be anyone else, please be a lost animal. Please be Robb, please be even Jon, please be anyone else but—

The dogs howled. A deep voice muttered, barely a whisper. “Stand up.”

He could barely hear Roose Bolton’s voice over the howling and barking of the dogs. Lord Bolton was never known for speaking loudly, always reserved and quiet. Trying to shush the hounds, Theon rose to his feet. One of the larger dogs snapped and grabbed the ear of another. The fervor inside the kennels grew, dogs yapping and chasing each other, growling and snapping at Lord Bolton. Roose watched, his lips a straight line.

“You have to train a bitch to respect. My son thinks all you need to do is yell at them and throw them meat. Kick a bitch, shout a word and it will follow your commands for a night. But not for a lifetime.” Roose eyed Theon up and down, wincing at his stench and appearance. “Unfortunately he doesn’t keep any of his pets in good health it seems.”

Suddenly embarrassed, Theon pat down his legs and chest, shaking off some of the stale hay, dirt and dog drool. He was aware his stench was unbearable. Were he at dinner with the Starks, Catelyn would have carried him off by his ears and thrown him in a scalding hot tub. He missed his clothes, he missed asking Sansa to hem them when they were worn. He missed parting his black hair in the mirror every morning, admiring his own youthful face.

Theon dare not make eye contact with Roose. He stared at his feet, cold and blistered. “They are good dogs, my—m’lord.”

Roose leaned in, cupping his ear. The dogs continued to bark as Theon hushed them, putting his hand out. A few blinked at him and softened. Theon stole a glance at Lord Bolton and thought he must be formed from mountain or oak tree. His skin did not shine with oils, it was always dry and lifeless. The lines on his face were precise and straight. Every bit of him looked preplanned by some design. This was not a man that was born so much as a man that was laboriously created.

“They are good dogs for ripping flesh. Like my son, hacking away without a thought. Brute force is not strength.” He nodded curtly. “Well. What did the Starks teach you? Anything of value?”

Theon fumbled for words. What did Ned Stark teach him about strength? What did Robb Stark? That they had it, that Theon was always lesser and weaker and—

He opened his mouth, looking up at Roose’s legs. Anywhere but the frozen eyes. “Under the Starks I was taught that,” the dogs had grown quiet now, waiting for his answer, “strength was choosing your battles.”

Roose pulled out a key from his clothes. The heavy metal looked light in his deft hands. He unlocked the kennels and shooed the dogs away from trying to sniff. They obeyed, their tails tucked away. Theon cupped his hands together nervously. Roose rarely ever looked at him, let alone spoke to him. He was something the Boltons and their bannermen tried to ignore, the freak, Reek. Ramsay’s little play thing that everyone turned a blind eye to.

“My son enjoys playing games as you more than know. He rarely thinks more than one step ahead of any action.” Roose spoke sternly, emphasizing each word from his mouth. He never sounded angry or malicious, simply threatening and cold with his own presence. Theon could not help but admire him. He had tried too hard as a lanky boyish lad to gain respect, all with varying degrees of success. Lord Bolton did not need to try. Respect clung to him like wet wool.

“Bolton is a name that people fear and respect.” Roose touched Theon’s chin, lifting his face up. They locked eyes. “Fear and respect.” His voice was so quiet, it took rapt attention to hear his words.

Theon tried to nod but Roose held on tight to his chin. His lip trembled. A dog growled slightly under its breath, just for a fast moment.

“What is my son using you for?” Roose asked, his voice level and calm.

“M’lord I don’t know what you mean. Ramsay is,”

“I will make this easy on you Theon Greyjoy. Does my son make you squeal like a woman on the night of her bedding?” A beat of silence between them. Roose nodded curtly. “That was all I needed to know. He is a boy of common origins, I expected nothing more from him. Filth and frivolousness.”

Softly, Roose ran a gloved hand through Theon’s hair. The leather was cold against his scalp. It did not feel human, there was no warmth inside of his fingers. Theon tried to look away from his cold grey-blue eyes. He had not seen them blink once. Was it a trick of the dim light? Roose grabbed strands of Theon’s hair, running them through his hands. He looked away, suddenly interested in the wall behind Theon. His disinterest was evident. Theon was just another moment in his life, barely of remembrance or note.

With his free hand, Roose opened his doublet, just barely enough for Theon to see his chest. His skin was pale, smooth and hairless. Theon stared, the gloved hand still touching his hair, moving down to his neck, touching and searching. What were the black marks on his chest, were those—

“Leeches.” Roose noted. Suddenly Theon was afraid that Roose could hear his thoughts. It would not surprise him. A man like this, he would not doubt if he were a necromancer or worse still. “Leeches have been used for many maladies or for simple health,” he explained as if Theon had asked. “Can you guess why I leech myself? Has my son ever mentioned?”

The question caught him off guard. Theon tried to ignore the sensation of his hair in Lord Bolton’s hands. He felt queasy. First the son, now the father. What next, he wondered, would the Bolton son come from his grave and take him in mealy, rotting hands? Would he be fucked by a corpse? “No, no, he has not.” His legs started to shake. Roose could smell fear like a hunting dog for sure. His panic was as rank as he was, bold and offensive. “I do not know what they are for. I was never taught.”

“They take out the bad blood, Theon Greyjoy. One would think the heir to the Iron Islands would know a bit more, be a bit more educated. Or did the Starks throw you in a dark room and hope for the best? No matter. I am not here to question Eddard Stark. A dead man cannot defend his name.” Roose unbuttoned more, revealing six large leeches on his chest. The area around their mouths was red and inflamed, a few lines of blood ran down his body in even streaks.

A dog whined, Theon broke concentration.

“Remove them. What does my son call you? Reek?” Theon nodded in recognition, his hands throbbing from missing fingers. “Fitting.” He breathed out, a slight chuckle. “Remove them from me and clean up the blood.”

“M’lord, I, I do not know how to,” He eyed the whining dog. Kyra. His favorite, if he was being honest with himself. Kyra, Kyra. Named after a woman who—Roose slapped Theon, just hard enough to shock him. “Yes. I will remove them.”

Roose was less violent than Ramsay, but Theon feared him more than he ever had feared his son. When Ramsay came into the kennels, it meant one of two things. Losing a body part, or offering his body. With Roose, he did not know his intentions. He did not seem like a man who focused on the corporal body, his interests were less brutish, more dangerous. Reaching a hand to Lord Bolton’s chest, Theon grabbed a leech. He expected them to be warm, full of blood and pulsating. They were cold and wriggling, not even the blood of Lord Bolton had any human warmth to it. He held the leech in his hand, briefly wondering how it would taste. Better than the dog’s ticks, more plump, meaty. Before his mouth could water, Roose pulled out a small glass jar and gestured to it. Theon dropped the leech in. It left a streak of red on the side.

One by one, Theon pulled the leeches from Roose’s chest. They were fat things, engorged on blood and happy. His hands worked quickly, but without all five fingers Theon was clumsy. He nearly dropped a leech, caught it in the other hand and silently cursed himself for being so nervous. Dropping a leech may mean his toes, may mean his ears, might mean a lifetime of torture and no release of death. He reached for the last leech and tugged gently. A quiet moan above him breathed on the tips of his ears.

“Clean the blood,” Roose grabbed Theon by his hair once more, harder, tugging out a few strands. His hair was limp and lifeless from malnourishment. It came out easy from the roots. Halfheartedly Theon looked around as if a clean rag and washtub would present itself.

“I have no,”

“Your mouth.”

Lowering his head to Roose’s chest, he stared at the red against pale white. Blood was nourishment. Blood was nearly food. He ached, hating himself for his empty stomach. Blood would fill him up, every drop would engorge him like a leech.

He licked, mouth hungry. He wasted none on his lips, his tongue eager to deliver the blood to his body, any amount would do. Roose grabbed Theon’s head with both hands, grabbing the tops of his ears and pulling on the lobes. Theon let out a hungry moan, desperate for more blood from Roose’s body. He sucked, lips tight on Roose’s skin. To his embarrassment, his mouth let out a loud sucking sound. The dogs stirred. All fear was gone, Theon was desperate and dying. His body took over, he fed.

The trails of blood were not enough. Maybe a mouthful total, no more. His tongue kept licking, the salt was feverishly delicious in comparison to rats, rotted meat, and hard hay. His mouth ached to bite and tear, he longed to rip a hole into Roose’s chest and suck the marrow from his bones.

Inhaling deep, Theon sucked harder against Roose, pulling his skin taut in his mouth. He let his teeth careen over the surface, very slightly nipping him. The man grabbed Theon’s hair tighter, digging his fingernails into his scalp, tearing the skin. He felt his head was about to burst, the pressure was immense. Yet he still sucked, easing the blood out with deep sucks, dragging his tongue in wet lines across Roose Bolton’s chest. He drooled, saliva running down Roose’s chest in large gobs, tiny bubbles of spit at the surface.

“More,” Roose begged out. The softness in his voice alarmed Theon. He felt something difficult to place. Power? A tiny bit of control? Roose was his, the most powerful man in the North was in his mouth. With every lap of his tongue, he owned a bit more of the man. His pale eyes flickered, enjoyment and pleasure clear on his face. His lip hitched up, his inhales shortened into small gasps. Every exhale left little puffs of breath between them. Theon dragged his teeth across Roose’s chest, applying pressure. He bit at his nipples, tugging at one in his mouth ever so slightly. Small bites, little tentative nips, worried snaps. If he kept going, would Roose have him hanged? If he stopped, would Roose have him disemboweled? If the captive held his captor in his palm—

Suddenly without warning, Roose pushed Theon’s head away and lifted his face up towards him. He pressed his mouth against Theon’s cheek, a fast kiss without any pucker or emotion. It was over so fast, Theon felt shaky where he stood. Did it even happen at all? Ten minutes ago he was alone and now there was Lord Bolton in front of him, buttoning his clothes and staring at the air above his head.

“If anyone asks of you what Roose Bolton visited the kennels for, you are to shake your head and play the fool. Otherwise your mouth will be sewn shut and your eyes taken from your head. What will you say if anyone asks?”

Theon licked his mouth, swallowing the blood. “I know not. Lord Bolton would never sully himself and come into the kennels. They are his son’s dogs. They are good dogs.”

“Anything else and I will fuck your eyeless skull, Theon.” Lord Bolton turned and left the kennels, leeches fat and full in his pocket.


	2. Omniscient

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Ramsay tastes something familiar on Theon's lips and he is not pleased. The only Lord Bolton that Theon should serve is him. Jealousy overtakes and Ramsay finds himself yet again angry and uncontrollable. Meanwhile, Roose contemplates a question he has had for some time. Is his son too much of a monster to let live?

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> SIN.
> 
> Content warnings: Abuse, rape, noncon, blood, some incest references and implications, flaying, Ramsay Bolton existing and being The Worst Person Alive.

**OMNISCIENT**

Ramsay liked his meat raw and his bread burnt. He slurped a messy swig of red wine from a flagon and slammed it on the table. His clothes were stained with food, dirt, and blood. Roose watched his son from across the table, fork and knife in hand.

“There are ways to eat without making a great fool of yourself,” Roose muttered, carefully cutting the flesh from a skinny game hen. Winter was almost upon them and the food was getting scarce. Ramsay looked up, furrowing his thick brows. He grabbed a thick, pink cut of meat with his hands and chewed. The oil lamp was burning down to its last drops and the stone walls were chilly. Roose tightened the cloak around his shoulders. His son was still a summer boy. He may not have grown up in luxury, but he always had grass below his feet and plenty of livestock at his disposal. The winter would change him by necessity or force. “If you keep drinking and eating that way, come winter you will be hungry again.”

With a shrug, Ramsay drowned himself with more red wine. The drops spilled down his neck and Roose shivered. Was there anything he son did with thought and planning? Even the way he walked was spontaneous, taking big crooked strides.

“Ramsay, I,” Roose hesitated, picking through his supper. As of late, he hadn’t been as hungry. His body was getting away from him. Temporary pleasures like drink and food were not enough anymore. He was learning to suppress the hunger and thirst. He was learning to turn it all off, his mind, his body, every bit of him that got in the way. “I think we should put the dogs to more use. They’re a hunting breed. They should be finding us venison. Instead, they’re sleeping with your other pet cooped up.”

“They get plenty of hunting practice,” Ramsay sneering into his food. His smile was crooked and self-indulgent.

“Hunting whores is not going to keep us fed.” Roose locked eyes with his son and tried to feel something.

“Skin is skin, leather is leather. When you need a new doublet you’ll be thankful.” Ramsay lifted a boot up to the table and gave it a tug. It took concentrated effort for Roose to keep his retort deep in his throat. He stared at his son’s footwear, hastily sewn together and awful. He cleared his throat and placed his knife on the table, away from his twitching and eager hand.

“The art of flaying is not something to play with and show off like a parlor trick.” He grit his teeth at every word, voice steady.

Ramsay dragged a finger across his leather boots and smiled at his father, pride beaming. “I’m a fast learner though. Anyone else would have mangled these.”

Standing up, Roose wiped his mouth with an embroidered cloth. He tossed it on the table and pushed in his chair with a loud creak. “Yes well, you’ve just mangled the Greyjoy boy.” He turned and walked away, strides careful and straight. No answer called after him. Roose swung the door behind him and listened. He could hear the faint banging of fists, perhaps a knife stabbing into the dinner table.

Scratching his scalp, Roose let out of a sigh. He needed to reign in his son. Explosive anger like that would ruin his House. All it took was one settling foundation and then—Roose shook off the thought. He took his gloves from his pocked and donned them, fingers stiff from the cold. Even with the warmest fur lined leather, they never got warm. His whole body felt cold.

Roose set off for the kennels. He needed warm blood.

 

XxX

The dogs, the incessant barking of the dogs. Theon covered his ears. If he tried he could make out words in their barks. Human screams. Women panicking and yelling, their last words embedded in their howls. Screeches of fear, pleading, always begging and begging and begging.

Kyra Kyra Kyra Kyra, he bit his hand and held his head, a pounding migraine forming. Kyra and her keys, Kyra and her howls, begging and begging please. He looked over at the hounds. Their nails needed clipping, they looked more like lions.

Every dog that he slept with was once a woman. Ramsay named his dogs after good sport. If a woman that he hunted ran enough and gave him a good chase, he named a hound after them. He had known Kyra. Her body was so warm. She was small and fiery, with hair that always tangled.

“Stop, please,” Theon begged the dogs. They barked at him. Their fur was rancid. Froth hung from their lips, dripping. “Is someone coming?” He asked, trying to hear their answers. In every bark he heard a no. In every dog he heard a woman dying. “Who is coming? Ramsay?” He touched a dog on the ear, staring into its black eyes. “Is it Ramsay?”

They howled in response, tails starting to wag. Their Master was coming. Harsh or not, they were his and their bodies knew. They wriggled in anticipation. Theon grabbed the dirt below him, dragging his fingers through. Most of his fingernails were gone, plucked out by Ramsay during a very ambitious night. He wiped the tips through the rushes and dirt, desperate to cling onto something. He felt he was floating away, leaving his body, watching himself from somewhere on a comet. The stars are indifferent to our fates, he remembered, thinking of the red comet he saw once. All men thought it prophesied greatness for them and their House. It was only something in the sky, it did not even glance at men. The stars did not see him suffering.

“Reek!” Ramsay screamed, an eagerness in his voice. He looked bigger and bigger every time Theon saw him. Or perhaps Theon was getting smaller, shrinking down to a pearl. Ramsay neared the kennel, smiling with his thick lips. “My sweet Reek!” He grabbed a key from his vest and pulled it out.

Would he know that his father was in the kennels only an hour prior? Bile rose in Theon’s throat.

He unlocked the door, laughing at his dogs’ barking and howling. “The girls are so loud. They crave fresh meat Reek. Not today, but soon! The anticipation is half the fun.” He pushed open the steel bars. A few dogs ran towards him, rubbing their bodies against his legs, panting and salivating. Ramsay rubbed their heads. There wasn’t a gentleness to his actions, his pats were rough and demanding. The dogs eyes widened to wide when he pat their heads, dragging the fur along and going against the grain. Ramsay had never touched another living thing with love.

“Get going, get going.” He pointed outside the kennels. The dogs ran, eager to stretch their legs. “Bring me back something!” He screamed after them. They always came back, though Theon wished they would leave, run south, find somewhere warm and an owner who would feed them lamb. _Run away,_ Theon willed, _be free of this place and tell someone to come back for me._

“I bet you’re wondering if I worry,” Ramsay closed the kennel behind him and neared Theon.

Theon was somewhere up in the sky looking down at himself. He looked so small from up there.

“Worry, m’lord?”

Ramsay snickered. “Worry about my dogs running away and finding some rich noble to let them lick his plate.” Could he read minds? Theon shifted gears, he brought himself back to the earth. Ramsay could see what he thinking, always. He always knew, there was nothing he could hide. No secrets, no thoughts of his own. He held onto his own fingers, gripping them tight. “If you kick a dog once, it will think nothing of it. If you kick a dog twice, it will hate you. But if you keep kicking, well then. If you keep kicking a dog it will love you even more.” He touched Theon’s lips, parting them with his fingers ever so slightly. “Kick a dog enough and it will worship the foot that hits it. It will lick it and think about it all day. My dogs will never run away.”

Theon took Ramsay’s finger in his mouth and ran his tongue across it. Switch focus, he thought, switch your mindset. Ramsay can hear everything, every thought, he knows everything. _Ramsay Bolton is kind and merciful, Ramsay Bolton is kind and merciful, Ramsay Bolton is kind and merciful._

The Bastard of Bolton grabbed Theon by his hair and lifted his face to his. He kissed him, tongue pressing into his mouth. He dug his fingernails into Theon’s neck, dragging them across his skin. Theon’s skin turned white and hot, flakes of skin raising. He let out a small gasp of pain into Ramsay’s mouth. Their tongues touched, Ramsay pressed harder into his mouth—

\--and pulled a hand back to punch Theon hard in the jaw.

“Blood!” He screamed. “Why does your mouth taste of blood?” Theon touched his jaw where Ramsay had punched, his breath fast and hard. His chest tightened up. “What did you eat, Reek! I have given you no meat. A rat? Another bloody rat? What did I tell you about those rats Reek?” He grabbed Theon by the throat and punched him again. Theon’s nose cracked, blood pooling from his face. Gripping his face, he moaned and screamed.

“M’lord, no, no, not the rats. Never. I don’t anymore, I haven’t!” He wiped a smear of blood across his face. Dizziness took over, his body was so weak and malnourished. Every bit of blood that left him was another ounce of strength gone. _I will die here,_ he thought knowingly, _Lord Ramsay knows this, he knows everything._

“Then what?” Ramsay pulled his sleeves up, exposing his arms. They were thick, well-fed, twice the size of Theon’s tiny wrists. “Why do I taste blood on you?”

Theon fell to his knees and covered his eyes. He could not look at his master, his master was disappointed.

“Lord…Bolton.”

Ramsay kicked Theon hard in the ribs.

“I am Lord Bolton! I am the only Lord Bolton to you!”

He pulled back his foot and kicked again between Theon’s legs.

“Your father!” He screeched, desperate for something to stop the pain. “Your father, Lord Bolton, Roose Bolton!” He prayed to every god, the drowned, the new, the old, the cold stars. “His leeches, his blood. I suck the blood out, I keep the bad blood out.”

Ramsay was upon him, his fists barreling down. Thick fists like heavy dead meat, he pounded into Theon’s face, his back, his shoulders. He screamed and screamed, both of their voices overlapping and clashing together. Ramsay tore, his mouth clasped around Theon’s shoulder, he ripped through flesh and spat out skin and blood.

“My father!” He slammed Theon to the ground and flipped him over. “You did what to my father, Reek?” He hissed into his ear, jealousy spreading through him. “Did he fuck you?”

“No, no!” Theon twisted his head against the hard ground, blood still gushing from his broken nose. Every time Ramsay visited him, he felt he would die, yet he always lived. Maybe tonight he would finally just succumb, blink and be gone. It would be quiet. It could all end. “I sucked the blood from him, that’s all, he visits me and I,” he coughed, “I suck the blood from him.”

Another fist hit his jaw. A bloody tooth came loose, Theon spat out more blood. It hung out of his mouth like a broken door. How many were left, he wondering, his tongue moving about his mouth desperate to count. The pain was too much, he could hardly think.

Ramsay pulled down Theon’s trousers. It came to this, Theon willed his mind to stop working. Move beyond the physical, he was desperate to be in any other body. Become a dog and run away, become a star and careen across the sky. Spitting into his hand, Ramsay rubbed his cock. He barred his teeth like an animal. There was no tenderness in sex, he had never fucked anything that he did not eventually kill.

Gripping Theon by his bony hips, Ramsay pushed inside of him. Theon howled, his body was too dry for tears to come out. Squeezing his eyes shut, he concentrated on a rock underneath him, staring at its edges and wondering how old it was. How long had it been there, how many atrocities had it seen?

Ramsay was on his knees taking Theon from behind. He reached his hands around Theon’s chest, touching and prodding, scrapping his fingernails across his body. Old wounds and sores opened up. Blood and pus oozed out of old scars and scabs. He put his right hand on Theon’s neck and moved his left down between his legs. Touching the scar, Ramsay pressed in deeply. A shock and shiver ran through Theon’s spine. His vision went white. All his nerves screamed at once and went silent.

“What do I take next?” Ramsay panted into Theon’s ear. He licked his skin and bit. “What left do you even have to give?” He was without rhythm, his hips pushing into Theon with erratic motions. His cock was thick, not as large but thick and unwilling. “You are mine, Reek. If anyone else wants to touch you, they have to ask me. And I will always say no.”

“Yes, m’lord,” he coughed and sputtered, wincing with every push inside of him. “I am yours.” He knew it was true. He was Ramsay’s. There was no other alternative. He was Ramsay’s through and through.

Ramsay came inside Theon. Cum mixed with sweat and blood, dripping down his thigh. He pulled out and looked at his toy, broken on the dirt. He hardly looked human anymore. Just a pile of sticks held together with skin and sinew. He leaned over Theon and spat on him, smiling. “If this happens again, I will flay your ass alive and wear the skin as gloves. I will be inside of you day and night, you will feel me inside of you forever.”

He was gone as soon as he had arrived, anger filling the marrow of his bones. Ramsay Bolton was the only true Lord Bolton as far as he was concerned. His father had said so, he had given him the greatest gift of the flayed man to wear on his chest. But he was better than his father. He was stronger and larger, he was full of meat and mead and more importantly, he was not afraid to take what was rightfully his.

XxX

Roose held his cock in his hand, eyes closed. Ned Stark’s bed was warm, though sullied with his smell. He could still make out a faint muskiness, somewhere between direwolf and smoke. He crinkled his nose and kept pumping, the leeches sucking hard at his chest. Forget the Stark, he forced the image of a smiling, naive man out of his mind. All of them. Forget them all, Ned and Robb and Catelyn, forget them. Roose slid a bare hand over the tip of his cock in wet circles. It had been so long. Often he would go without any sexual desires, nothing bodily excited him. Power, intelligence, cunning. Those things made his cock hard and readied his appetite. But rarely bodies.

Ramsay’s mother had been an exception. He thought of her screams, her legs, the color of her face when he climaxed inside of her. She had a beautiful flushed pink, splotchy on the cheeks and the nose. Yet many of her details were lost to him. He couldn’t have cared about certain things that men found attractive in a woman. Most of the time it did not stir anything inside of him. But now, Roose thought, Winterfell was his. The Starks had fallen. The Bolton sigil was overhead and the long winter would kill anyone who defied him.

He kept going, his cock hard in his hand. He arched his back slightly.

Roose reached across the bed and touched a knife that had been in his pocket. He pulled out the blade and dragged it against his thigh. Shivering against the cold metal, he bit his lip hard. Small droplets of blood ran out of his leg, budding out and blooming. More, more, he needed more. Roose ran the blade across the chest, in between the leeches. He dug deeper, just until the first layer of skin punctured. Never too much, just a little bit of pain was good. His hands grew shaky between pleasure and pain, he was almost there.

Touching the blade, Roose thought of all the skins he had flayed in his lifetime. How delicate the material was to work with. Human skin was thinner than a cow’s hide, much harder to work with. But it was infinitely more beautiful. A flayed man was better than song and drink. His cock was slick. Ramsay did not know the splendor of it, he thought it was all hacking away and doing it fast. The boy rarely savored what it felt like to pop the blade under a man’s armpit and begin. He went fast, broad movements of the arm, never stopping to smell the coppery blood and really feel how flaying felt. Roose’s muscles tightened. The boy would make a good victim though. His flaying knife would fit well under his skin. He had so much of it to give. His body was soft and supple, meaty and fleshy. How would he kill him first? Brute force would ruin the skin, make it holey and imperfect. Poison would discolor it to a dull grey. Choking him would make the blood vessels burst. Drowning ruined a perfectly good skin, turned it to wet soup. Roose stroked his cock harder. Yes he would, yes he would tie Ramsay down, keep him immobile. He would skin him alive, that was the best way. He would have to keep him steady, keep him still, he couldn’t move underneath him, he would have to stay perfectly still as the knife went under, yes, yes, that was the best way.

Roose Bolton came, semen spilling onto his hand. He opened his eyes and breathed out, relieved. He never liked to feel his own body.

A dog howled outside the window. They were back from their run and by the sound of it had just seen their master. Roose stared up at the ceiling above him and pulled a leech off of his chest. Bringing a bloody finger to his mouth, he sucked and savored. The boy was his heir, he reminded himself, his eyelids heavy. No matter. There were other women. Bastards were easy to make.


	3. Feed

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Ramsay punishes Theon for being so familiar with his Lord Father and takes him on one last hunt.

**Feed**

Sometimes it looked to Theon like Ramsay Bolton wore stolen skin. The way he moved, the way he stood, it all looked sloppy, as if he was held together with spare parts from the butcher. Theon tried to sleep, knowing Ramsay would be coming today. He kept telling him a hunt would happen today. What woman would it be this time, he wondered. Who else can Ramsay kill, what poor lowborn woman would fight for the honor of having a hound named after her tonight?

Sure enough, the dogs began barking for their master. Ramsay whistled through his teeth, exciting the hounds. Their tails wagged harder, whipping Theon on the arms. He shushed the dogs under his breath. “Calm down, calm down please,” he begged, his voice an octave below a whimper. “Please, just stay quiet, don’t hunt today, please.” He rubbed one of the dogs near him on the chest, patting it gently and hushing. It did not cease, its barks and howls growing louder and louder.

Ramsay opened up the kennel and smiled. “Reek!” He shouted, a thick honeyed excitement in his voice. “Reek, I have some exciting news for you today!”

There was no such thing as exciting news for Theon. He pushed himself up by his elbows and stood. “What is the news, m’lord?”

“The hunt is today. I know you’ve been waiting.” He unraveled a rope in his pocket and gave it a tug. “I’m sure you’ve stayed up all night waiting for this, just eagerly anticipating it.” Ramsay stepped closer, the pink hues on his skin turning red with delight.

Theon nodded, the split ends of his hair falling in front of his face. He felt more and more like one of the mangy mutts each day. Even the dogs had more fat on their bones, though they were still underfed. Theon ran a nervous hand across his chest, counting each rib. He could feel them all under his skin now. While he had always been thin, he had never been quite so scrawny and frail.

“Yes, m’lord, the hunt.” There were no more witty answers to give. Initially he fought Ramsay, given sassy answers and was punished each time. There was no more fight to give, only waiting until it was over. “Who shall be hunted?” And would he recognize the name as a girl he once knew?

Ramsay smiled, his eyebrows raised. “You will, my sweet Reek.”

His skin went taut with fear.

“My Lord father has been enjoying you too much,” Ramsay unwound the rope and grabbed Theon by his arms. He started tying. The kraken prince was much too shocked to react. The rough rope around his wrists felt final. He would die, Theon submitted to the thought. One more game with Ramsay and then the hounds would tear him to bits. That was all, so it went. “I thought of taking you to my favorite part of the woods, where the frozen lake is. Remember Reek, we’ve hunted there before? You watched me put an arrow through a serving girl. Can’t remember her name, she wasn’t a good runner. But you will be the best hunt, won’t you? After all this time, you wouldn’t let me down.” Ramsay tightened the rope and smiled at his dearest pet. There was no sadness in his voice, just giddy excitement. “You will be tough to replace, but the world is so full of cocky young men like you, it won’t be heard. Some eager fool will come by ready to be a prince, a king, a God, it always happens.”

Theon stared at the dogs. They whined and whimpered at his feet, pacing back and forth, anxious for Ramsay to give them either commands or the heel of his boot.

“Yes m’lord,” was all he choke out.

Turning to his dogs, Ramsay held up a gloved hand. “Girls!” He shouted. The dogs stared, licking their lips, mouths heavy with drool. “Are you ready to hunt?”

The barks resounded like brass bells in Theon’s ears. Ramsay opened the kennel gate and they ran in circles, eager to tear prey apart. The hounds sniffed the air, waiting for Ramsay to instruct where and what to hunt. Ramsay grabbed Theon by the hair and pulled him away from Winterfell. His head was bowed, but Theon tried to move his neck just enough to look around him at the stone buildings of Winterfell. Once he had called it new, when he was a child first brought there. Then, he had called it home. Home, or something close enough to it. All the meals he had eaten, all the flagons of ale he had shared, all the days he spent practicing his bow, his memory was mere ocean spray. It all washed away into a salty, hazy feeling he could not place. He was ready to die, it had been so long since he had felt at peace.

Tree roots and stones littered the path to the woods. Theon was careful on his feet but still tripped over several stones. Every time he faltered, Ramsay tugged on his hair harder, pulling out thin pieces from the roots. “Careful now, not much longer,” Ramsay sung into the air, his dogs following behind, their howls chasing Theon. They did not know Theon was their chase yet, the dogs watched gleefully for something new and fun.

Once the hunter and his prey reached a small frozen lake in the woods, Ramsay stopped. He faced his dogs and let go of Theon’s hair. Theon straightened himself up and looked around. His breath was visible in front of him.

“Reek, will you miss me?” Ramsay asked, kicking a small twig. It snapped and skittered across the snow.

“Yes, m’lord.” Theon knew running was not an option. Not now. He would stand and let the dogs devour him. No hound would be named Theon, he would not give Ramsay another game, not now.

Ramsay placed a hand between Theon’s legs and rubbed. He cocked his head to the side. “As much as you miss that?”

Theon nodded. May it be over fast.

Ramsay’s hand drifted down Theon’s pants and felt the blistered scar. The wound was disgusting, the scabs never healed. They constantly chaffed off, leaving bloody welts. Even the air hurt the wound, Ramsay’s leather gloves were excruciating. Theon kept his teeth tight against each other, determined not to show signs of pain. Sweat formed on his upper brow.

“I think it’s an improvement.” Ramsay went to his knees, he pulled down Theon’s pants, exposing his skin to the cold air. A dog barked at another, a small tiff broke out behind him. Theon stared at a tree in front of him, trying to find patterns in the details. Swirls, lines, letters, anything to distract him. Ramsay kept rubbing the scar bloody. Theon’s legs started to twitch. The pain was too much, he started counting branches. One, two, three, four, this will be the last time, the last time, five, six, six, five, six. He pressed his hot tongue to Theon’s scar, his cracked dry lips like a flaying knife on tender skin. Theon’s eyelids fluttered with pain, he let his head fall backwards. Ramsay licked, his moans lewd and loud. He giggled to himself, wiping his mouth with his sleeve. Blood trickled out of the wound. It never healed, it would never heal, Theon gasped and shut his eyes tight. The twinge of pleasure behind the immense pain betrayed him. Whatever was left still wanted to feel. It had not forgotten what pleasure was, it could not. “You’re better this way,” Ramsay murmured against Theon’s skin. “I made you better, you’re whole this way.” He ran his teeth across Theon’s hips, grazing his canines and biting, sucking, his mouth a monster ready to unhinge and devour. “I did a good job, you’re so beautiful now.”

Theon bit his lip, trying to hold in a scream. A dog barked and chased another. Somewhere a crow cawed. He tried counting again to no avail, tried thinking about history lessons he learned as a boy, tried thinking of anything else. _Summer sun, a ship’s prow, the feel of grass under my feet, a suckling pig,_ Theon peeked down at Ramsay Bolton sucking at his body and cringed. There was no memory strong enough to take him away anymore. They were all too vague.

Ramsay pressed a finger into Theon’s scar, undoing a small bit of stitch he had put in him weeks ago. The stitch popped open, blood came running out. He lapped at it, dragging his tongue across Theon’s groin. “I made you and I can unmake you.” He grabbed Theon’s thigh, his nails digging dirt across his body. “You were hideous before me. I made you what you are. I created you. I created Reek.”

Without warning, Ramsay tackled Theon to the ground. His back hit a hard stone, he cried out in pain and wailed. It was too much, it was too much, he needed it to end. Ramsay stood over Theon and pulled down his breeches, his cock hard and red. He gripped it tight, rubbing his palm over its head in circular motion. Theon covered his head with his hands, breathing hard, digging his heels into the snow. The moon was full and bright, a night so strangely luminous. “N-no,” he whispered into his remaining fingers, biting the tip of his thumb. “Just let me die,” Theon croaked, his voice too weak to reach Ramsay’s ears.

“How do you want to please your Lord before my hounds rip you apart?” Ramsay laughed, stepping his boot onto Theon’s chest, pressing down slightly. His fragile ribs panicked. Theon’s bones were so frail, any amount of pressure felt like a vice. With a screech, he shifted his body up, trying to wriggle away. “Pick one, Reek. Make it worth it. Your ass, your mouth, your little homemade hole? Do you want me to fuck the stitches right open, make a new gaping wound?”

“No, no, by the Drowned God, the Seven, the Old Gods, no!” Theon’s wails echoed through the trees. Ramsay pressed his heavy boot down harder.

“Pick one!” He screamed, voice sterner this time. “I don’t want to kill my sweet Reek, but my Lord father has touched you. I don’t enjoy sharing, Reek. I don’t like people touching my things. Did you love him? Did you open your filthy Stark loving mouth for his cock? Did you spread wide like a whore trying to find money to feed her babes?”

The sudden mention of the Starks jolted Theon from his pain. “Never, no, I promise my Lord. I never wanted it, I told him no every time. It was awful, I hated every moment of it.”

“So you admit it then.” Ramsay pulled his right leg back and kicked Theon in the ribs. He screamed, sure he was broken. This time for good, this time he was unwound like an old rag, threadbare and shredded. Whatever God was watching, they were calm. No higher power cared to pull Theon away from the tempest.

“Yes! But I hated it, he wasn’t you!”

Another kick, a bit lighter with the toe of his boot.

“Please your Lord.” Ramsay demanding, dropping his voice to a whisper. Theon gathered his composure the best he could and straightened himself up, pushing his weight to his knees. His mouth, he decided. It would be the least painful, though his teeth were loose and unhealthy. Over the time he had lost a few, from malnutrition and force. Ramsay was still hard, his length full from violence.

Theon edged closer and wrapped his lips around Ramsay’s cock, drifting his eyes upward. He ran his tongue up and down the vein on the underside of his cock and then took him full in his mouth, his throat tightened. Like so many times before, Theon gagged. His Lord took his head in his hands and pressed him down further. Ramsay face fucked Theon, grabbing handfuls of hair and pushing in and out, his hips moving with the force of a stampede. Theon’s teeth grazed his cock, but Ramsay grinned at the pain. He came quick, too excited from the moment to last very long.

“Swallow it, boy. May your last taste be me,” Ramsay wiped his cock with his hand and brought his own hand to his mouth, giving it a lick.  Ramsay’s smile was ecstatic. He held up a hand. The dogs watched. Ramsay pointed at Theon, they followed his command, heads tilted.

Theon looked at each dog in their soft brown eyes, his heart capsized. They were good dogs. He swallowed, desperate for water to quench his throat and wash the taste of Ramsay away. Bitter, he remarked. Bitter and sour.

Red Jeyne bared her teeth.

“Girls!” Ramsay commanded. Kyra’s tail was a flag pole, straight up to the sky.

“Hunt!” He gestured at Theon, his flaccid cock still hanging out of his breeches. Theon rose to his feet, his fingers began to tremble. He could not run, he would not run. He would die standing on his feet like the Greyjoy he knew he was. His name was Theon Greyjoy and Ramsay would not name a dog after him.

The dogs stood still.

“Hunt!” Ramsay gesticulated at Theon, his words rabid. “Hunt the fucker! Hunt him!” He kicked a dog with the edge of his boot. It did not whimper. It growled.

It all happened too fast for Theon to see. One moment Ramsay was standing, back arched over his dogs, kicking and wailing at them to hunt him. The next, there was a jaw on his leg, snapping and biting. Theon could not see which dog started it, but he so hoped it was fiery Kyra, the fire in her fur still burning. They snapped and bit, they attacked all at once, howling and barking.

Ramsay fell. His legs buckled underneath him, the dogs were fast on his face, jaws snipping and biting, ghosts of women screaming their names. Taking a step back, Theon could do nothing but stare, eyes unable to blink.

“HUNT! HUNT HIM!” Ramsay screamed, his voice lost to their barks. A flash of red against the white snow. They drew blood. Ramsay Bolton fell into the snow, his body lost against the hounds. They tore and ripped, pink flesh in their mouths.

Gasping, Theon ran. The dogs did not follow. He ran though his toes were cold and missing, his shoes held together with old sinew. He ran past the thickets of fallen trees, past the frozen lakes, he ran though he did not know which way safety was. The clamor of the dogs was faint behind him.

“Good dogs,” he whispered to himself, catching his breath. “They are good dogs.”

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> One more fic down, dearests. More to come, as always. If you ever have any requests, shoot them my way.


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